Black Bread Afternoon
by Jantallian
Summary: Andy and Mike find themselves in dire trouble, but help appears unexpectedly. Or is the solution worse than the original problem? And how are they going to get themselves out of this mess before their elders come home? (It seems a great shame to me that we only had one full season with Andy. As for Mike, he's just a gem, so this story assumes 'Ladies Day' never took place.)


**BLACK BREAD AFTERNOON**

Jantallian

"The best smell is bread, the best savour is salt, the best love is that of children." Proverb

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"Jess is gonna kill us!"

Mike Williams stared at the open oven door, through which what appeared to be half a dozen smouldering bricks could be seen. Then he looked at Andy Sherman, crouched beside him with a cloth in his hands.

"He's gonna be real mad!" the little boy told him helpfully. "And when Jess gets mad –"

"So tell me something I don't know!" Andy muttered crossly.

"What're you gonna do?" Mike's expression suggested complete innocence and a total lack of responsibility for this baking disaster. "He's gonna blame you for ruinin' his bread."

"Tell me something I don't know!" Andy groaned again. "Like what to do with these." He waved the cloth at the smouldering loaves as if it was a magic wand and could make them disappear.

"I dunno," Mike said helpfully. "But you'd just better do something soon, before they get home, 'cause this place stinks!"

The thought of what would happen when his elder brother walked into a house smelling heavily of charred dough made Andy go pale, over and above his anticipation of the furious reaction to be expected from the proud bread-maker. Their enthusiasm for stoking the oven to keep it really hot had gone horribly wrong, not least because, after piling on the fuel, Andy had become totally engrossed in reading Mike some of the old tales of knightly deeds that he had enjoyed at the same age. The dark winter afternoon had closed around them and become dusk almost before they had realised.

"Slim'll back Jess up. He always does," the happy little harbinger of doom pointed out. "And Jonesy ain't gonna be too happy about the way his oven looks, either."

"Isn't going to," Andy corrected, thereby showing himself a true Sherman. "And just shut up, will you, Mike!" He was struggling with a desire to shake the younger boy until his teeth rattled. In this too, little did he know it, he was emulating his elder brother, who not infrequently had the same reaction to Jess. Mike and Jess were, in many ways, uncannily alike.

Andy sat back on his heels and contemplated the possibilities. _Where on earth could you get rid of six cremated loaves? And even if you could, how would you explain their disappearance?_ He knew full well that Slim and especially Jess would be starving when they came back at the end of a long day spent working outside in the cold of winter. And Jonesy would arrive before them, expecting to be able to heat up a big pot of stew to go with the new bread. _And it was the first time Jess had trusted him!_ A big lump of misery settled in Andy's guts at the thought of letting Jess down. _Especially letting him down in this way_! None of them knew why Jess was such a good bread-maker or why it was so deeply important to him: so important it was almost like something sacred. The closest Andy had ever got to the significance was when Jess had said one evening that sharing bread was the simplest and the deepest way human beings cared for each other. _Now he had spoilt this precious belief._

"Burnin' bread's real bad luck," Mike informed him cheerfully, as flakes of charcoal wafted out of the oven on the hot air and settled like black snow on every surface. "Like breakin' a mirror or seein' a lonely magpie."

"Thanks a lot!" Andy growled. "It'll take a miracle to change our luck now."

"Or a fairy godmother," Mike suggested. "You know, the one who always comes in the nick of time when the prince has been turned into a frog because he's given away the magic sword and the lucky cat is in the dungeon and the dragon's gonna eat the princess. Wish we had one of those!"

"Huh?" Andy was baffled. It sounded a very unlikely story to him, but little kids ran everything together in their imagination. What he need right now was a really practical solution to an insoluble problem. Slim would probably tell him it was a well disguised opportunity and Jess would undoubtedly regard it as a way to hone his survival skills. _Survival! Was he going to survive Jess's wrath? Not likely!_

At that moment, there was a knock at the back door.

The boys looked at each other. It couldn't be any of their elders, because they wouldn't bother to knock. Admittedly Jess had been known to kick the door open if he had his arms full of laundry, but that didn't count. This was a very polite knock. A quiet knock. One you could hardly hear. Which meant it wasn't Mose or Smudge or Mort or any of the neighbours …

The knock came again, very gently.

"Shall I?" Mike whispered.

Andy nodded and mouthed: "Yeah." He wondered why they were whispering and keeping so quiet, almost as if they did not want to be discovered. _Well, they didn't – not in the mess they were in!_

But, when the soft knock came again, Mike scrambled to his feet and walked over to the door. He seemed to take a big breath – maybe in case it was Jess in the mood for practical joking? _If only!_ Andy thought to himself. _There was no way Jess was going to see a funny side of this!_

Mike reached out and turned the door-nob. Very slowly and cautiously, he opened the door, which creaked mightily, as usual. Then he smiled. It was quite hard not to smile, if only from sheer relief.

Standing outside was a little old lady.

She was quite the most perfect little old lady you could imagine. She was small and plump, rounded like a dumpling. Her apple-cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled under a pile of silver hair. She was plainly dressed in black, like a widow, but for some reason she was wearing a snowy white apron. She smiled back at Mike.

"May we come in?"

They suddenly realised that a tiny child was hiding in the folds of her voluminous skirts. A little girl. A girl with pale, radiant skin and long hair reaching almost to the ground, hair like the finest gold. She was dressed in white. She looked like an angel.

"May we come in, Michael?" the little old lady asked softly again.

Mike looked over his shoulder at Andy. This was his home now but Andy was older and he was Slim's brother. Mike felt he should really make the decision. Andy made no reply. He looked dazed and uncertain. But the law of hospitality was in the bedrock of the relay station and Mike was sure that only really bad people – the ones who shot at you – got turned away. Sometimes not even then.

"Please come in," he replied equally softly.

In the twinkle of an eye, the old lady and the child were over the threshold and standing in the smoke-filled kitchen. The old lady looked at the dishevelled boys and the contents of the oven and she laughed. It was a rippling, tinkling laugh, like silvery drops scattering from a waterfall. In the hot, muddled, cramped kitchen, it fell like flakes of cooling ice. It made you feel that nothing mattered and all your worries and struggles were ludicrous and could be blown away with a puff of breath.

"Oh dear!" she observed. "Are you in trouble, Michael?"

"We are a bit," Mike admitted.

"So I see." Her bright glance flicked round the kitchen as if taking in the contents of every container, drawer and cupboard.

"Please, who are you?" the little boy asked curiously. She knew his name, but he didn't understand how.

"Mike!" Andy came back to life with a typical Sherman concern for manners.

The little old lady smiled and shook her head. "You invited us in, Michael. You should know our names." Mike looked puzzled and, after a pause, she went on: "You remember. I am Morgan."

"Pleased to meet you … Mrs … Morgan," Mike responded.

"Yes, that's right – _Mrs_ Morgan." She smiled at him again. "And this is my … granddaughter … Goldalamie – but that's a little long for a little girl, so we call her Goldie for short."

"It's a pretty name."

"She is pretty, isn't she? Just like a gold and white … flower."

"Yeah!" The word was whispered out on Andy's wondering breath.

"But we ain't got any porridge," Mike informed their visitors.

"Porridge?" Andy looked baffled again, then light dawned and he said sharply, "That's enough, Mike!"

Their visitors did not seem offended. The little girl gave them both an enchanting smile, revealing just the tips of shining white and sharply pointed teeth, and the old lady, Mrs. Morgan, told them gently: "I don't think porridge will help in your present situation, boys."

"Sure could do with some help," Andy muttered. "Can't see how to get rid of this …" – he gestured at the burnt bread – " … or stop them seeing all the mess!"

Mrs Morgan smiled again at them both. "Oh, boys! If you want to stop someone noticing something, you need to provide an alternative. Something so … magical … that they won't bother with what's around them. They'll just be … carried away … with the delight of what you've provided to eat instead."

"I don't think our cooking is up to _magical_!" Andy told her bluntly.

"Perhaps I can help?" Mrs Morgan offered with another understanding smile.

"Can you?" Desperation made Mike's voice and his bottom lip wobbly.

"Oh, yes. After all, you have invited us in." Her eyes swept round the kitchen again. "Why put up with bread when you can have cake?"

"Can you make cake, ma'am, Mrs Morgan?"

"Oh yes. My cakes are … out of this world …"

"Yippee!" Mike positively bounded with enthusiasm. "We're saved, Andy!"

Andy wasn't too sure how well cake would go with stew, but, in this crisis, any solution was better than being the helpless object of Jess's wrath. "What do you need?" he asked, as he looked round for a clean bowl.

"Just your full attention, my dears. Watch and concentrate. It will only take a moment."

That moment passed in a blur. Andy and Mike saw – or thought they saw – cupboards fly open, tins and packets showering their contents, utensils and pans leaping into action, and everything done in the twinkling of Mrs Morgan's eyes. They watched open-mouthed, but not entirely empty-mindedly.

Suddenly Mike reached out and picked up a small tin from the side. He said: "You ain't used any salt. Jonesy always adds a pinch of salt."

Everything seemed to hurtle down onto the bench. The clang of falling pans, the rattle of spoons, the thud of dried fruit and the hiss of falling flour resounded in their ears. The kitchen was filled with a cloud of whiteness and every surface was thick with ingredients.

Just for the moment in which this happened, Andy saw a change come over Mrs Morgan. Just for a moment her eyes flashed green and her skin was luminous with a fetid tinge and she seemed suddenly so much taller.

Then it was all past. The sweet little old lady laughed and said: "You didn't concentrate hard enough, boys. Now run away with Goldie and deal with the living room. I'll see what I can do about restoring some order to this kitchen." As she said this an expression of contempt crossed her face, making them ashamed of the crude facilities and simple equipment which were all they were able to offer for her magical culinary skills.

Somehow the three of them were through the door and into the living room before they could think about it.

Goldie flitted around the room like a tiny, white bird. It was crazy, but Andy could have sworn that sparks glittered in her wake, like a shower of meteors. Energy seemed to crackle from her fingertips and her footsteps left shining imprints on the floorboards. She was so ethereal he could have sworn he could see right through her. But, if you focused on her, only Goldie was real: the room, the relay station, the range, the entire continent faded away like a forgotten dream.

"Make sure you put that room in good order too!" Mrs Morgan's voice floated in from the kitchen. "I've enough to do in here."

"Aw! It's always the same!" Mike moaned. "If grown-ups want the place tidied, they should do it themselves!"

Andy looked round the room. The trail of light had ceased to glow and he saw the familiar room as if all the colour had been leached out of it. The couch was worn and threadbare, the table rough with splinters, the rugs by the fire moth-eaten, the curtains faded. It didn't actually look untidy, just uncared-for, unloved and long-abandoned to the ravages of time. He felt a sudden yearning for his mother, for the warmth and order that she brought to the household, for her unfailing strength and comfort.

As if he sensed Andy's thoughts, Mike said suddenly: "I guess my ma would want it kept nice too." His voice quivered and his eyes were screwed in effort not to cry. To disguise his feelings he complained crossly: "But why us? Wish we didn't have to bother about tidyin' and could just have fun!"

There was an answering laugh from the little girl, like a shower of golden snowflakes drifting through the air. She spun round on her toes and sprang onto the couch, where she bounced happily, causing the springs to twang and groan. Then she jumped, spreading her arms and seeming to float upward, her fingertips reaching up to touch the ceiling, before she alighted on the protesting sofa again. She smiled at the boys, clearly offering an invitation and a challenge.

Mike's face lit up. It was a game he loved to play, even though Jonesy had chased him off with a broom often enough. Andy had a reminiscent grin – the last time he'd tried jumping on the couch, his growing height and weight had resulted a total devastation of the springs, leading to the purchase of the one Mike was currently bouncing on with such enthusiasm. Slim had docked half the cost out of Jess's wages, on the grounds that he had incited Andy to such a riotous trick in the first place. Now, it was tempting! Maybe … just this once? After all, he'd had to pay some of his savings as well …

A crazy mood of exuberance seized them. Soon they were running around the room, not just springing on and off the couch, but the other chairs and even the table as well. It was as if their fear and guilt over the spoiling of the bread had been transmuted into a full-blown panic which sought to blot out these apposite feelings by a physical frenzy which paid no respect to anything in the house. Pictures were knocked awry. Papers went flying from Slim's desk and formed a wonderful covering on which to slide over the floor. Cushions burst their stuffing as they were tossed between the three. Curtains ripped into tatters when they grabbed them for handholds. The rugs ended up in a heap into which they hurled themselves with abandon. Everything on the mantelpiece was swept off and smashed in the hearth.

It was probably a good thing that the fire was barely smouldering, otherwise the flames would surely have spread through the wreckage of the room. But from the kitchen doorway, the old lady was watching, a bright gleam in her eyes. "Tut! Tut! You young men aren't responsible enough to keep the fire going!" she snapped sweetly. "Goldie, they need some help."

The little girl span round again and jumped for the bookshelves. With her arms full of Slim's precious library, she headed towards the fire. Something in Andy struggled for normality as he watched her advance. He couldn't let this happen to Slim! It was the equivalent of burning Jess's bread and he already felt so bad about that. He thought frantically how he could prevent another disaster. You didn't burn books! It was like burning human knowledge and achievement. You didn't set fire to them. Anyway, he'd lit enough fires in his young life to know you didn't start a good blaze with too much paper. Fire needed kindling and twigs and gentle feeding with small pieces of wood.

Andy bent down to the big log basket in the corner of the chimney and picked up a handful of twigs. After the last storm, they'd all worked hard to clear fallen trees and branches along the road, grateful for this addition to their winter fuel supplies. It was mostly stuff which had to be left to season, but they were delighted to find plenty of old dry rowan, an excellent slow-burning wood. Andy held out his offering and passed some to Mike.

"You need some of this to get the fire back to life."

As the two boys tossed the twigs on to the fire a great cloud of black smoke suddenly billowed from the hearth, blinding their eyes and making them choke with soot. In the darkness they saw two glimmering shapes, wavering and indistinct, yet somehow menacing in the green glow they emitted. A clammy, cloying sliminess seemed to wrap itself round the boys, making their skin crawl and shiver. Then a cold cleansing wind roared through the room, sweeping the smoke back up the chimney as the fire burst into fierce red and orange flames. Andy and Mike crouched down and held out their shaking hands to the homely glow for several minutes.

When they were both warm again, Andy passed the right kind of logs over to Mike and he fuelled the fire. The blaze shimmered and pulsed, as it was something alive which was glad to be fed. The warm light gilded their faces and called answering sparks from their eyes. It was some minutes before they returned their attention to their visitors.

"My dears," Mrs Morgan cooed, "you are such efficient fire-makers." She was smiling at them, but the smile was all teeth and no eyes. "But fire-making is such a labour. What a shame you have to work so hard. Wouldn't you rather be playing, Michael?"

Mike looked at her hopefully, but he replied: "We all have to work here, 'cause there ain't no-one else to keep the place goin'."

Mrs Morgan laughed, the same tinkling shower of sound, and Goldie echoed her like sparks spitting from the fire. "That's what the adults tell you – but is it true?"

"Of course it's true!" Andy objected. He knew life on the relay station could never be one of idleness: there was always something going on or a chore to be done. But Mrs Morgan ignored him and was concentrating on Mike.

"And you believe them, you trust them …?" Her soft voice insinuated that they were being lied to, laughed at, made to do work which the others could easily have done themselves.

But the word 'trust' was a mistake. Mike's eyes screwed up again with suppressed tears and he gulped out: "I trust Slim an' Jess. They rescued me and they keep me safe!"

"Jonesy too!" Andy added. "He's looked after me since I was smaller than Mike and he's never let me down!"

"So sweet," Mrs Morgan murmured between her teeth. "But young boys should have freedom, Michael. Be free to run and jump and explore and never have to stop except when you want to …"

She moved towards Mike, her arms outstretched and Goldie clinging to the folds of her skirt, just as they had seen the pair outside the door.

"Imagine a place of freedom, Michael … a place where you can do as you like and no grown-ups will stop you … a place where there are no chores or tiredness or pain … a place where you can eat the most delicious food whenever you want to … a place where there is sunlight and moonlight and always fair weather … a place where you never need to sleep …"

She was so close to Mike, reaching out to clasp him to her bosom. But if there is one thing boys can't stand, it's being grabbed and cuddled by strange females. Besides, Mike was too close to the memory of his dead mother to tolerate anyone else usurping her actions. And, even more, he hated women who cooed over him as if he was a baby. He was glad that, in an all-male household, there were firm hugs and strong arms around him when he needed it, but no sloppy behaviour which made him feel like a little kid. He stepped sideways, evading her grasp.

"That's not polite, Michael, my dearest," the silky voice seemed to slide into his ears. "I'm offering you everything your heart could desire – aren't I, Goldie?"

Quick as a snake, the little girl left her side and got behind Mike, pinching his arm playfully as she passed.

"Ouch!" Mike yelped in surprise, but he couldn't back away. Mrs Morgan seized his wrist, twisting it and pulling him towards her, while Goldie administered more pinches.

"Pain is not pleasant, Michael, nor work nor suffering nor death." Mrs Morgan leaned towards him and he could feel her breath on his face and smell the faint scent of decaying flowers. "I am offering you the chance of a life-time – a childhood without end. You feel pain and fear now …" – she twisted his arm even harder and Goldie's sharp nails dug into his neck – "but if you come with me you will never feel again … never suffer the grief and loneliness in your heart because there is no-one to care for you."

A cool sweet numbness spread through Mike, through his pores, through his veins, seeping towards his beating heart.

"Stop it!" Andy yelled angrily, breaking the spell. "He doesn't need you! He's safe here. He belongs with us and we take care of him!"

At his challenge, Mrs Morgan towered over them. She was no longer apple-cheeked and dumpling-shaped. Her eyes flashed green and her face was a hard, angular mask of cold jade. She reared above them like a vulture about to rend a carcass. And the delightful little fairy angel with whom they had played now hissed at them with a forked tongue. Before their horrified eyes, her skin shone slippery with golden scales, her arms fused to her sides and her legs intertwined and her head reared back as her mouth opened, full of white pointed fangs. She lunged at them, a rattlesnake ready to strike.

In an instinctive reaction, Andy grabbed Mike and pulled him into a close embrace. In the same movement, he grasped the nearest weapon and brandished the iron poker between the two of them and this hideous menace.

Mike gave a horrified gasp and began to shout: "Leave me be! I wish –"

Andy clamped a hand across his mouth. Then he said firmly and clearly: "I wish we had never burnt the bread!"

And the whole world turned inside out.

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"Out of the way, you two! Lemme get it!"

Strong hands grabbed Andy and Mike by their belts and lifted them bodily away from where they had been crouching in front of the oven door. They were dumped unceremoniously on the other side of the kitchen and slumped against the wall as they watched Jess pull open the door and reach carefully inside with a thick cloth round his hands. They held their breath.

"Perfect!"

There was the sound of tins being up-ended onto the cooling racks. The strong, homely smell of freshly baked bread surged out in a warm gust and filled the little kitchen, then the whole house.

"Now you git outta _my_ way!" Jonesy pushed Jess aside and deftly slid the stew pot into the hot oven. "Ain't no sense in wastin' all that heat."

The kitchen door creaked open and Slim could be heard sniffing heartily. "Smells good! They manage ok?"

"Yeah!" Jess turned with a grin and surveyed the boys. "They did good! But I guess doin' some real work has exhausted them. You gonna sit there all night?" He offered a hand each to Andy and Mike to pull them to their feet.

"None of y' ain't sittin' anywhere in here!" Jonesy told them roundly. "Git out from under my feet if y' want any supper. An' it goes without sayin' one of y' at least is gonna be starvin'!" He shooed them all in the direction of the living room, adding a further injunction to Slim and Jess: "An' you two git washed up. Y' smell like y've been in that sulphur bog."

"No, we haven't!" Slim protested indignantly. "Didn't go anywhere near it, did we, Jess?"

"Ain't smellin' of anythin' but horse and harness soap," Jess agreed, "an' maybe a bit of honest sweat."

"Huh! You? Work up an honest sweat? If I ever live to see the day you –" Slim's teasing was cut off abruptly as Jess grabbed him in a stranglehold. "Leggo!"

"You ain't gonna live t' see any day if y' keep needlin' me. _And_ you'll be doin' all the work y'self!" Jess told him as he tipped him expertly onto the hearth-rug.

Slim sat up and rubbed his neck. He sniffed again and looked puzzled. "That sulphur smell is stronger here." He looked thoughtfully at the boys. "You been using up all the matches?"

"No need," Andy told him firmly. "Must be the fire. We just put some more kindling on."

Slim raised a quizzical eyebrow, but let the topic drop. "Come on," he told Jess. "We'd better get washed up anyway."

"Come on!" Andy told Mike, as Slim and Jess disappeared in the direction of the water pump. He followed them out cautiously and, when he was sure they were fully engaged in what looked more like a water-fight than a wash, led Mike at a run over to the barn.

"What are we doing?" Mike demanded breathlessly.

"I've got an idea."

The wash, or water-fight, resulted in two dripping wet cowboys rummaging through the bunk-room in search of some dry clothes. This was no hardship to Slim, who was naturally neat and organised, but something of a challenge for Jess as he struggled to work out which of his crumpled piles of clothes actually contained his clean laundry. It was therefore some minutes before they returned to the living room and flopped into their respective favourite chairs.

"That's good," Slim sighed thankfully. "I could just use a nice, quiet evening in front of –"

He was rudely interrupted by the sound of vigorous hammering. Both men sprang to their feet in surprise. The sound was coming from the kitchen.

"Jonesy, what on earth …?"

"It's outside," the old cook told them, jerking his head towards the door.

The door creaked open, as usual. Slim and Jess stepped outside and looked around. Jess pointed up above their heads. Slim nodded and was about to say something when the hammering broke out even more vigorously than before, this time from the front of the house. They pounded round on to the porch.

There was no one there.

But above this doorway, exactly like the kitchen door, there now hung a shiny new iron horse-shoe … as Andy said … just in case!

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NOTES:

Mrs Morgan is, of course, Morgan La Fay, the enchantress from _The Matter of Britain_ , who, amongst many other nefarious deeds, appears in the 13th-century romance _Floriant et Florete_ in the role of a fairy godmother. Any resemblance between Daisy Cooper and Mrs Morgan is (probably) co-incidental.

Goldie is a form of Lamia, a beautiful queen, transformed into a daemon who hunts and devours the children of others. Some accounts say she has a serpent's tail below the waist. This well-known description of her is largely due to _Lamia_ , a poem by John Keats composed in 1819. (I'm having a bit of a Keats moment this Halloween!)

The popular culture idea that vampires cannot cross the threshold uninvited is actually a very ancient one applicable to wider threats than just vampires. For instance: "From the 5th century … houses had only two entrances, the door and the chimney … To haunt an Armenian home, the sorceress or devil had to get through one of these entrances and if they were blocked by a magic, the inhabitants could not be harmed." _The Door and Threshold in Armenian Folklore,_ Paul Essabal, _Western Folklore,_ Vol. 20, No. 4 (Oct., 1961), pp. 265-273

And, of course, sovereign defences against fairy magic include salt, rowan, cold iron and, most importantly, bread (presumably at least partly because of its significance in the Eucharist).

Acknowledgement: _For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors._


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